


i've got a feeling this year's for me and you

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M, slime puppy but christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21863587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: The elevator dings and Roman can’t imagine who else could be coming up to the penthouse, just about everyone he’s ever met even once is crammed into the space. There’s a crowd, but he can see a fall of blonde hair, hears Gerri’s soft voice, cutting through the rest of the noise, like his ears are tuned to it, a frequency meant for him.
Relationships: Gerri Kellman/Roman "Romulus" Roy
Comments: 9
Kudos: 109





	i've got a feeling this year's for me and you

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to have fun with christmas fic too! please enjoy! happy holidays! don't kill your family members!

_I could have been someone_   
_Well so could anyone_   
_You took my dreams from me_   
_When I first found you_   
_I kept them with me babe_   
_I put them with my own_   
_Can't make it all alone_   
_I've built my dreams around you_

Fairytale of New York (The Pogues)

Christmas Eve is bad. Too much ham, too many people, and the champagne glasses are never full enough. Roman tries to stand in the corner, out of sight, out of mind. Shiv throws a canape at him, sticks out her tongue. Kendall isn’t even there, running late or not coming at all. And Connor is somewhere with Willa being gross. Not a sign of intelligent life as far as the eye can see.

The elevator dings and Roman can’t imagine who else could be coming up to the penthouse, just about everyone he’s ever met even once is crammed into the space. There’s a crowd, but he can see a fall of blonde hair, hears Gerri’s soft voice, cutting through the rest of the noise, like his ears are tuned to it, a frequency meant for him.

She doesn’t come anywhere near him, doesn’t even look his way. The last time they talked, he grunted “fuck” over the phone as she told him that was too much of a dickwit to ever make it very far.

He calls her too much, he knows that. Texts her too, but she always responds, even if it’s 3am. He wonders if she sleeps, if working for his father so long changed her genetic makeup so that she no longer requires rest between workdays. A sort of placid, boring vampire.

He thinks about texting her now, when she’s just across the room, forcing a laugh at something Frank says. She looks different when she really laughs, when she smiles. It doesn’t happen often, always makes his dick twitch when it does.

“What are you wearing?” he sends, thumbs moving across his phone, sliding the message to her. He watches her, her hand sliding into her pocket. Her hair falls across her face, but Roman thinks he can see a little smirk twist her lips.

**Princess Leia bikini. Seemed festive**

_Does that make good old Popsicle Jabba the Hutt?_

It’s easy to text her, to bury his head in his phone, to pretend like no one else is around. Gerri sends back a laughing emoji.

**When did you watch Star Wars?**

_Connor talked about it a lot. Had posters in his room. I think he jerked off to Carrie Fisher._

He sees Gerri’s head look up, like she’s trying to find him, to seek him out in the crowd.

_Up for a game of Marco Polo?_

He doesn’t get a response. When he looks up again, he can’t see Gerri, doesn’t know where she’s disappeared to. His glass is empty, his mouth is dry, and this party got more boring.

He’s pouring himself a glass when he hears “Marco,” said softly in his ear, that gentle voice, that voice that wraps around him, the one that makes him shudder and feel, the voice of the person who knows him best.

“Polo,” he says, turning to face her. In heels, she’s close to his height, but he can still look down at her, thinks about reaching out to touch her face. He’s never really touched her. “A top up for killer Kellman?” he smirks, holding the bottle out to her.

She lets him fill her glass, gives him a small smile in thanks, sips daintily. Such daintiness from this woman with a foul mouth, profanities falling from her lips late at night, locking him in a bathroom, pushing him against a wall, back to her, while talking him through an orgasm.

Every time, they get closer. It started with phone calls, miles between them. Then the bathroom at Tern Haven, just a door separating them. And then her home, her bed, her hand next to his thigh, and he can look into her eyes as she tells him how repulsive he is.

He can see how she doesn’t mean it, not really. How the worst things about him are also some of the best things. He wonders how long she’s known, how long she’s felt anything. If she even really feels anything now, or is just willing to let him into her home and her bed out of some fucked up strategy to keep her job safe. That fear only ever nags at him a little, overridden by his throbbing dick and the way his brain kind of goes still whenever she talks to him.

He doesn’t think there’s maliciousness hidden in that.

Whatever else there is between them, the foundation is trust.

“How much longer do you think I have to stay here?” he asks, taking the bottle with him as he turns away from the table, knowing Gerri will move with him, at least one thing in this whole fucking world he can count on.

“The host’s son? Probably a lot longer.” She takes another sip from her glass. “Especially since Kendall hasn’t shown up. Logan will want to parade around at least one of his sons. Even the fuck up.”

“Maybe it’s more in character if the fuck up disappears somewhere with general counsel for an hour or five, and only comes back when all the guests are gone.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, darting a look at her from under his eyelashes, head ducked like he isn’t inches taller than her.

“You think you can keep me entertained for five hours?” Her eyebrow’s raised, and she’s looking at him with that infuriating mix of amusement and disbelief, the one that always makes him wonder whether or not she takes him seriously at all.

He shrugs. “At least ten minutes.” That gets a laugh, her look shifting from appraisal to decision made.

Draining her glass, Gerri grabs a champagne bottle of her own from the table, cocks her head towards the staircase. It’s all he can do not to bound up the stairs, to throw himself onto the guest bed and wait for whatever it is she’s going to do. “Five minutes,” she says, her voice quiet, firm, and she makes her way through the crowd, up the stairs, one hand holding the champagne and glass, the other holding her skirt up, some fancy silk material that catches the light.

He can see a boring kitten heel hit the edge of the step, the flash of her ankle. A reliable, like, mailbox all wrapped up in shiny paper.

Waiting five minutes seems impossible. He doesn’t have a watch on. He stares at his phone, wonders if it’s broken, if the clock stopped working. He takes a drink from the champagne bottle, sets it back down on the table behind him. The numbers don’t change. He googles “what time is it?” and is disappointed in the answer. Two minutes later, he’s up the stairs, hopes Gerri isn’t timing him, wouldn’t be surprised if she was.

The upstairs is so much quieter, just the faint strains of Christmas music filtering up. There are a few empty rooms here, Logan’s master bedroom at the very end of the hall. He can feel his dick twitch at the thought of fucking Gerri on his dad’s bed, doesn’t think he’ll suggest that to her. Not yet, anyway. Maybe next Christmas.

The first room is empty, but the second one yields the woman he’s looking for. She’s on the edge of the bed, drinking straight from the champagne bottle, mouth wrapped around the lip. “You managed to wait longer than I expected,” she says when she swallows, and doesn’t move.

“Isn’t self-control one of the things you’re trying to teach me?” He sits next to her, carefully, not quite touching her, but can feel the warmth of her next to him all the same. The solidness of her. She sets the bottle down on the floor, tucked right next to the corner of the bed. He can smell the dry sharp scent of it as she comes back up.

“That’s not something I’m especially interested in at this moment, Roman,” she says, and her leg is so close to his, and he’s the reason they started this today, three months ago, whenever, so he’s the one who reaches out to touch her, to put his hand on her thigh. Her lips open, just slightly, and he has the sudden overwhelming urge to kiss her. Not that he’s never felt that before, it’s just this is the first time he thinks he can do something about it.

His fingers twitch, stiffen, squeeze a little as he leerily makes his move, all awkward and stuttering as he leans towards her. But Gerri doesn’t lean away, lets him come towards her, takes him as he is, always. And is no doubt making a plan of how to make him better at the back of her mind.

When their lips touch, it’s strange, different. Hers are tacky from lipstick, a little dry. He can taste the champagne at the edges of her mouth. As if sensing that he needs some direction, some inducement, she opens her lips, slides her tongue against his, taking control of things, a hand coming up to his neck, fingernails scraping against his skin.

“Not chickening out, are you?” she says softly when they pull apart. He can’t do anything but look into those blue, blue eyes, her pupils wide and dark, her lipstick faded, smeared. A part of his brain reminds him that means some of that pink color must be around his mouth, Gerri’s mark on his face. “I’ve got at least nine more minutes.”

He starts to fumble at his shirt buttons, her eyes never wavering, his neither. His hands are awkward until she reaches out to help, their fingers moving together, sliding buttons through each hole. He remembers a situation where she’s done the opposite, stepped away before she got too close. But now, here, her hands pull his shirt from his trousers, push the shirt from his shoulders. She’s seen him before, naked and bared in front of her, jumping on a table in the office, standing in front of her in her bedroom. This is different, because it’s her hands that are doing the undressing.

He kisses her again, gives himself permission to put a hand against her cheek. He starts to slide towards her hair and she pulls away, bats at his hand. “It took me hours to get this right today, you can’t mess it up. Pants, off.” She’s commanding, she’s direct, and he fucking loves it, does as she says, shimmying his pants off his legs, kicking them to the floor.

She reaches up behind herself, practically dislocating a shoulder to reach her zipper, and he holds his breath, because he’s never seen her anything other than fully clothed, even in her pajamas, all buttoned up and shuttered away.

She’s the oldest person he’s ever seen undressed but it doesn’t even matter. Her bra is blue and silky, though it’s primarily functional. He’s seen lacy things and bras that are just ribbons and doesn’t even know how they work. This, he sees, he understands. Her breasts slightly overfill the cups, and he watches them move as she breathes.

She’s not wearing underwear and he wonders how long she’s had this planned, if she knew they’d end up here when she dressed for the day. Or, and the thought almost makes him have an aneurysm, she spends most of the time without underpants on. The hair between her legs is lighter than he’s seen before, finer too, and he wants to bury his face there.

Stepping from the fallen material of her dress, like a fucking old lady Birth of Venus, she comes towards him, a half smile on her face, that quirk of her lips. He’s hard already and all they’ve done is kiss. When her hand touches him, when she kneels on the bed next to her, he feels like he’s going to faint. Her fingers are so warm, so confident, and they move slowly up and down his shaft, slow enough he knows he won’t come - she knows how fast he goes, the rhythm he needs. She’s seen it happen enough times.

And then she straddles him, bracing her hands against his chest and he bucks slightly at the weight, feels the mattress move as her knees settle into their respective spots on either side of his hips.

“I’m not a statue, Roman. You are allowed to touch. If you aren’t too chickenshit.” He likes the way her lips spit out the words, emphasized so carefully, and it’s what makes his hands move to her thighs, both of them so pale, never let out into the sunlight, kept in fluorescent-lit offices.

She lifts her hips, braces against the mattress, against him, and slides against him. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised that she’s wet, that she’s ready for him. He thought it might take more than that, than him. He has to remind himself that there’s a possibility - a probability, even - that she wants this to. Whatever _this_ is.

The feel of her around his dick is. He doesn’t have words for it. He’s at a complete loss for words. A rare occurrence. All he can do is look up at her, wisps of hair falling forward from her face. She lets her body down so they’re touching, so her breasts are pressed against him, and he fumbles with her bra, wants to heft them in his hands. He’s always thought they were the size of oranges. Maybe grapefruits. He wants to know for sure.

Eventually he gets the clasp free, holds her at her hips while she slides the bra from her arms, tosses it behind them. She rocks forward slightly, clenching her muscles around him and he bucks, ruts, spasms. He loves the feel of it, of her. His thumbs press against her nipples, her breasts heavy in his hands, spilling through his fingers.

As she moves again, he can’t stop the panting noise from escaping his lips, grunting slightly. Gerri shushes him, her eyes snapping to his. “Did you forget there’s a party downstairs?”

He did. He can’t think of anything but this, but her in front of him. A Christmas gift, unwrapped for him. He arches up and muffles his noises in her shoulder, his teeth scraping against her skin, and when she makes him come, he can’t stop himself from biting into that soft spot, knows without a doubt there will be a bruise there, that a record of this copulation will be emblazoned on her skin for a week. It’s enough to make his dick twitch again, even as Gerri levers herself off him, sags slightly into the mattress. She cranes her head around to see his handiwork, her fingers tracing the mark of his teeth. She doesn’t seem mad.

“More than ten minutes,” she says. “Less than five hours.” He wonders if there’s a timer running on her phone. She grabs a tissue from the box on the bedside table, swipes it between her legs. He can smell her from here, and it’s all he can do to stop from reaching for the used Kleenex, from stuffing it in his pocket to keep for later.

There’s a half-bath, just a sink and a toilet, just off the room. Roman closes his eyes as he hears the water run, imagines Gerri washing her hands, seeing his bitemark in the mirror, arranging her hair again, tucking away any stray strands. Making herself presentable.

And when she comes back into the bedroom, from the neck up, she looks every inch the respectable executive. But she’s still naked and Roman wants to stare at her forever. There’s so much there, so much to see. He can see a C-section scar on her stomach, the stretch marks at her thighs. The freckles on her chest. He hopes he gets another chance to look, to see.

She doesn’t look at him, not really, just bends down to grab her bra, easily putting it back on, slipping the straps on her shoulders. She steps into her dress, slides the bodice up. Without realizing, not even thinking, Roman is there, already moving, his hand resting on her now-clothed hip, other hand on her zipper.

He feels her gasp slightly at the sensation, as he slowly - so slowly - moves the zipper up to the top of the dress, his thumb brushing against the nape of her neck as moves to do the small clasp. She smells of something spicy and floral, heightened with the slight musk from their recent activities and he just closes his eyes as he breathes her in.

“I’m sure someone’s wondering where we are,” Gerri says, stepping forward, away, and suddenly she’s the executive again, like she let herself be a different person for the moments they were together in this room. And now she’s his mentor, the mole woman, the implacable Gerri Kellman.

“Okay,” he says. “Thanks for the - whatever.” She turns over her shoulder and smiles at him softly. “Merry Christmas, right? New Year’s resolutions and whatever the fuck. Auld Lang Syne.” He can’t stop the words from flowing out now, like his filter got hacked, like a stream of verbal diarrhea he can’t contain. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she echoes. “Let’s go.”

They’re not even all the way down the stairs when Shiv appears, half-empty glass in hand, looking up at them from the bottom step.

“Where did you two get off to?”

“Funny you should say ‘get off,’ Shiv,” Roman starts, but feels Gerri’s hand lightly touch his wrist even as she moves away from him, sliding into the background, disappearing into the crowd, going invisible. How does she do it? What kind of superpower?

“We were fucking in the coat closet. What do you think? She got an email about something and then had to talk to me about it and blah blah whatever, it’s really hard to be almost the head of a company. No fun ever, always work and boring emails.” He flutters his hand at his sister, shrugs, becomes the ringleader, the head of the circus, a magician using distraction and charm, hiding the truth away.

“Yes, these past six months of being expected to be somewhere at a specific time must have been so taxing for you,” she fires back a smile on her face. There’s a reason she’s his favorite. “Dad wants to do that whole caroling bullshit around the piano, sent me to find you.”

Every year, they do this, and every year, it leads to an argument about “The Twelve Days of Christmas” and no one looks up the lyrics in the intervening months. He will never remember if it’s nine lords-a-leaping or twelve ladies dancing, and of all the things he’s expected to know, that seems the most inconsequential. Last year, Kendall punched him for making up alternate verses. Apparently “eight ships a-sinking” was not an entirely appreciated ad lib. “Ten Toms a-dead-catting” wasn’t popular either.

Marcia can play piano surprisingly well. Connor once joked that’s how she got the role of “Logan Roy’s wife” during auditions. Perhaps none of the Roman children are particularly adept at jokes or timing. The guests gather in close around the family as she starts to play the opening strains of “Good King Wenceslas” and Roman affects a mock baritone, singing lower and deeper than he should, puffing out his chest.

He sees Gerri sidle up to the piano, to the other side of his father. He can hear her soprano cut through the rest of the noise, clear as a bell. “Brightly shone the moon that night…” He wonders if she ever sang lullabies to her daughters as she tucked them in. Tries to remember if she ever sang _him_ lullabies on the nights she was the only adult in the Roy or Kellman family who remembered the children existed.

He catches her eye for the third verse, almost bellows “Bring me _flesh_ and bring me wine,” and enjoys the tinge of pink on her cheeks that she can’t hide.

Not the worst Christmas, all things considered.


End file.
